For All My Tomorrows
by Jazyrha
Summary: Because even the world was reduced to ashes, she looked beautiful, still. /A Fi x Homer story/ /Set during Burning for Revenge/


**For All My Tomorrows.**

**Summary: **Because even when the world is reduced to ashes, she's beautiful still.  
**Pairing: Homer and Fi  
Notes: **I know it's not the best and probably OOC, but I had to get it out of my system. There's a lot I'm not proud of XD I might rewrite it, or do another fic with the same theme. Not Beta'd, so sorry for spelling errors and stuff. I hope you enjoy anyway. Please leave a review. **Set during the fifth book: Burning for Revenge.**

When Fi closes her eyes, all she can think about is how easily the world seems to burn down. How easy all goes up in flames, devoured by heat. Red and blue and white and black. Smoke and loud bangs. That's what the end of the world sounds like. She's seen it, she's caused it.

She gets up and looks around. It's weird to be in the house of Ellie's grandma. It's weird too be in a city so empty and deserted and abandoned and _dead_.

She'll think herself to death like this, she'll think until her head is just as empty as the streets of Stratton. She walks around as silently as she can. Everyone's sleeping, though she's not sure that's what Ellie's doing. But she hadn't reacted when she got up next to her, so maybe she was in one of those states where you weren't really sleeping, but you weren't awake either. Maybe they've all been into that state for too long.

She winds up next to the only person awake at this ungodly hour and his hair is messes up, his face is dirty, he looks tired like hell and she can't imagine anything more handsome. He looks the good kind of roughed up, like an action hero in a film. He stiffens when he notices her movement, then relaxes when he notices it's her.

"Hi," she whispers, making sure to keep her voice soft.

"Right back at ya," he answers and she can't help but smile slightly.

Standing next to him, she thinks about what happened. It's not that long ago, but she can't really tell. Time is meaningless. Yesterday, today, tomorrow, it's all the same. She looks at his now calm face, concentrated on the road and she thinks of the look on his face when he was driving full speed towards the plane. She thinks of how brave he is, he and Ellie, both of them. She thinks of how pathetic she is in comparison, yelling like a schoolgirl. Yelping, squealing, squeaking.

No, that's not true. Not entirely. She's not _weak. _She knows that. When it comes down to it, she would do anything to protect this little group. But maybe she's doing that out of fear, too.

She's terrified to end up alone. Without Ellie and her amazing ideas, her support, what would she do? Without Homer and his courage, his brave thoughts, his leadership, where would she end up? She loves Lee and Kevin to bits, she honestly does, but Lee is too filled with anger and it's all about revenge and death and _justice _and _honour _and empty words and Kevin… well, he's lost Carrie, he's lost his love and he's lost himself.

"You should go back to sleep," Homer says.

"Why?" As soon as she says it, she feels as stupid as a sheep, except they're apparently pretty smart, so she's stupid like something else. Incredibly stupid. She studies the worn down tips of her shoes.

"Because you won't be as pretty tomorrow," he replies and it's even softer as before, like he doesn't realise he's saying it, like it's just a brush of wind, like she never meant to hear it.

But she does and she whips her head up and places her hand in her hips.

"Don't make fun of me, please," she hisses, "that's really mean."

He glances at her and smiles, then returns his attention back to the street.

"I'm sorry," he shakes his head, "that did sound kind of weird. But I –" he shakes his head again and keeps silent.

"But you…?" she tries.

She wants to tell him how strong he looks. She wants him to hold her, just hold her in his arms and she won't think a second about what these arms have done, what those hands have taken from this earth. She wants to lean against his chest and feel a _heartbeat, _convince herself it's still beating, that all of them, they're still human. She wants his warmth and she wants to feel safe, even if it was for just a tiny fraction of a second. She wants him to look at her and never look away.

She remains absolutely motionless instead.

"You know how in the First World War, the English were so crazed about poppies?" he starts and she's confused but she nods anyway. Combs her hair with her hand as she listens, thinks about Ellie's words and painting with lilies. "Do you remember why?"

"I forgot," she admits and she wishes she remembered, because she doesn't want to come across as brainless. She tries a smile as distraction.

"Well, it was because poppies are the first flowers to grow back after everything is destroyed. Just imagine: not a single tree in miles, the earth completely destroyed, not a living soul you recognise with their gas masks on, and then, when you think you're going to lose it, you peek over the edge of your trench and there it is: the tiniest, red flower. The only beautiful thing left."

He shrugs and makes a noise that she now classified as laughter. Before the war, she would've thought it was the saddest sound in the whole world, she would have started crying without knowing why, she would've thought it wasn't possible for a sound to convey so much pain. But now, now it was the closest thing to laughter they got.

"I guess you could say that you've become my poppy," his voice drops so low and soft that Fi is sure for a second it was the wind, whispering wishes in her ear. It takes a few seconds for her to gather those words and then she's blushing madly.

Her heart skips a beat and she doesn't know what to do with herself.

"It's… so reassuring that even after all what we've been through, you're still… well, beautiful," he shrugs again, already dismissing his own words.

"I'm not, though," she replies. "I'm not beautiful."

She's not. She has a scar on her face, she has dirt _everywhere_, her clothes are ripped and she hasn't washed her hair in days. Her nails and short and broken, her lips dry and cracked. She has bruises everywhere, her eyes are small and red-rimmed. She's a mess, she's disgusting.

She's a murderer. She's a killer. She's a victim of war. She's a mercenary. She's Fiona Mackenzie.

"I think you are," he says and he looks at her. "I know it sounds really cheesy and stuff, and I'm _really _wondering why I'm still talking, but it keeps me going sometimes and –"

She's on her tiptoes and she presses a small kiss against his lips, dry and cracked too. He holds her with strong, dirty arms, presses her closer against dirt, ripped, burnt clothes and it's the closet to happiness she's come in a long time. She can tell half his mind is still focused on the street, but she admires that too, she understands that too.

_I really love you, _she wants to scream, but she can't. It's war, she's such a mess, she's so lifeless, she doesn't know about love. She doesn't want things to end up like Ellie and Lee, awkward and painful. She's scared of getting hurt even worse and how is she supposed to handle that? She knows no words to explain, she has no words to reason. Sometimes she feels like she's become mute and the whole world leaves her with actions.

But he asks nothing and simply holds her still, holds her tight and protectively. Holds her with arms that can surely protect her for harm. She turns around in his embrace, leaning her head against his chest, sometimes playing with his clothes or fingers absently and she wouldn't ask the world for anything more.

She already has a reason to fight.


End file.
